


And I Feel Fine

by Steamcraft



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (now aint that something?), Alternate Universe - Good Omens Fusion, Angel Boyd, Angel Derek, Angels vs. Demons, Antichrist Scott, Canonical Character Death, Demon Erica, Demon Stiles Stilinski, Full shift fox, M/M, Non-Chronological, Religious Themes, Werewolves are still a thing, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-05-01 07:29:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5197472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steamcraft/pseuds/Steamcraft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the End of the World as we know it! Stiles, an angel who didn't so much as Fall as held two rude fingers toward authority, tries to run away from his problems. Derek, a dutiful angel and antique collector, tags along begrudgingly; it seemed better than participating in the apocalypse, at the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Was that…?

It couldn't be!

Stiles -- called Stilanisull by most of Hell -- slithered down the branches and stopped where feathered wings touched leaves. Despite being matted wet, Stiles recognised the shimmery dark feathers, like a nebula. “How are thingss upsstairss, Derek?” the serpent asked the angel.

Deidraec -- also called Derek by a small handful -- shifted his wings and looked up at the demon in the tree with narrowed eyes. “Stiles? Is that you?”

“Oh good! You remember me!” It's been quite a long while, anyway. The demon moved onto Derek's wing and crawled across his shoulders.

“I was under the impression you wouldn't remember _us_ at all,” the angel admitted.

“Really? Why?”

“Well, you remember the other angels that fell,” Derek said. Stiles tapped his own face with his tail, thinking, before shaking his snake head. There were faces and feelings, but no backgrounds or scenes.

“I remember you and the resst of the angelss of Heaven,” he said slowly, “but that'ss about it. What happened to the resst of uss who fell?”

“You mean the rest of _you_ ,” Derek corrected. “We're on opposite sides, now.”

Stiles's tongue flickered against the angel’s cheek, and an awkward quiet fell.

“I didn't--”

“We don't have to sstop being friendss becausse I'm a demon,” Stiles hissed petulantly. “There'ss no rule on that.”

“It's a given, isn't it?” Derek asked. “I'm doing Right, and you're doing Wrong.”

“I could be doing Right, sspeaking with an angel.”

“That would place me Wrong.”

The demon spiralled around Derek's arm. “I don't like thiss talk of Wrong and Right. Tell me what I don't remember about Heaven.”

Derek gave him a sidelong glance. “What do you remember?”

“Honesstly? The ressentment.” He paused and lifted his head to look at the angel. “Issn’t that sstrange? I don't remember what I liked about it.” Stiles watched him stretch and shake rain from his wings.

“You liked the bowl of souls,” Derek said after a moment.

“What'ss that?”

Even after a delay, the angel didn't respond and his lips pulled down in a frown. Stiles felt he said something wrong. He tucked his head behind Derek's shoulder and allowed the subject to drop.

Earth’s first lightning strike lit up the sky. The first humans, not too far from where the demon and angel stood, gave startled cries.

“Are you here to help them?” Stiles asked.

“What are you doing here?” Derek returned.

“Oh, you know.”

“I'm afraid I do not.”

Stiles slithered around the angel’s shoulders and looked at him in the face. “The firsst man, the firsst woman,” he singsonged, swaying his head like a serpent being charmed, “Meeting their firsst guiding hand -- you -- and their firsst brick in the road toward temptation. That’ss me, if you couldn't tell.”

Derek snorted. “You may have a better chance in a different form.”

“What? I love how ssleek I am, sso sssssmooth,” he exaggerated the hiss.

“You're a talking snake. You don't think that won't terrify them after being exposed to natural animals?”

“I'll lie, obvioussly. I will claim to be a more intelligent creation. They wouldn't know the difference.”

The angel hummed. “Clever, but it won't work. If you looked like an angel, however…”

Stiles slipped to the ground without a word and landed in a puddle. More awkwardness stretched between them.

“Maybe,” he said quietly.

“Do you… Do you remember your original form?”

Stiles coiled tightly around himself. “No.”

“Do you wish to know how it was, Stiles?” Derek sighed when the demon fumed in his own upset. “I suppose I'm being insensitive.”

“It's not that,” Stiles suddenly said, the hissing gone. “I mean, yes, someday. Tell me about myself when we're not busy with these tiny babes, but… It makes me resent even _more_. I don't understand why I've forgotten what I enjoyed about being an angel. I'm resentful, I'm hurt, and angry, and scared, and at the same time I don't care. I love being who I am now, I love having will, and it's strange I feel this way, so conflicted over something that never bothered me before.”

Stiles could feel Derek's eyes on him but he was too embarrassed to acknowledge the angel. He heard Derek sigh again, and then there were hands picking Stiles up. Stiles allowed himself to be slung over Derek's shoulders, out from the rain.

“I don't understand your loss,” he said sincerely, “and I don't understand all the emotions you're feeling. What I do know is you're still Stiles, overwhelming and spastic in every way.”

“Well, yeah,” the demon remarked. “Did you doubt me?”

“Yes,” Derek replied frankly. Stiles opened his jaws wide and spat. “Oh, don't look like that. Would you have expected anything different?”

“Well, yeah!”

“It's a given, I said, didn't I? I can't go around trusting every fallen angel. Some of you demons attack on sight.”

“What if our positions were reversed, then?”

“That's stupid to ask and you know it.”

“There's nothing stupid with hypothetical questions, Derek.”

“It is when it's not possible for it to happen.”

“Now you're just being unreasonable!”

“You're impractical. Always.”

“Maybe Wrongness agrees with me, like Righteousness agrees with your backside!”

“Stiles, calm down. Your animal-sized intellect can't keep up.”

“Why, you low-flying--”

“Uh, pardon us,” said a feminine voice. The angel and demon whip their heated glares onto the first man and woman. They carried makeshift spears and pointed them at the two entities. “We don't really mean to intrude, but the both of you are scaring the hunt away. Would you mind taking your spat elsewhere?”

Derek knocked the spear out of his face and frowned at the first woman. “You think we're scaring the hunt? Did you not notice the downpour?”

“What of it?” she asked, eyes narrowed.

“Oh my word. _Babes_ ,” Stiles muttered and unwrapped his constricting hold on the angel’s neck. “Derek. Derek, come on. Surely we can help the lambs just a bit.”

“Why do the lambs need help,” asked the first man.

Derek gave him a withering glance. “I suppose we must,” he said despairingly.

(Stiles hissed in Derek's ear, smug, “I told you they wouldn't quesstion thiss form.”

“It doesn't matter,” the angel hissed back. “I severely overestimated them.”)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story is incomplete. There are many scenes written, but the actual outcome is undecided. Chapters will vary in length from a couple hundred to a couple thousand.
> 
> I recently re-read Good Omens and wanted to write something similar yet completely different. As I tried to mimic the aloof writing structure of Neil Gaiman for later scenes, it didn't set and the plot grew without my permission; this story is going to be rather twisted. It's also going to take a couple shameless stabs at religion, and quite possibly a handful of other topics to avoid at dinner.
> 
> <3


	2. Chapter 2

Derek frowns as Stiles drapes his new form over the freshly buffed counter. The demon sighs loudly, _again_.

“If you're bored, you can dust the shelves,” the angel says, “instead of soaking up the wood polish.”

Stiles rolls his eyes up to look at him. They're honied whiskey eyes, this time, without pupils, partially hidden behind those modern glasses that tint in light.

“You've never cleaned the shelves, why should I?”

Derek looks at thick layer of dust over the antique artifacts in the store. There are old spider webs that are thick with dirt. The only clean space in the entire thrift shop is the sale’s counter, and one memorable occasion the floor. That was nearly a millennia ago when he was expecting higher ups to check in.

“It would give you something to do aside from encouraging customers to loiter.”

Stiles straightens up and glances around himself. He raises an eyebrow at Derek. “What customers?”

Derek raises his own eyebrows.

The bell above the door tinkles softly and a mother-daughter pair walk in slowly, hesitantly, with confusion in their expressions.

“Good afternoon,” Derek greets them, ignoring Stiles's sound of amusement. “Have a look around. Let me know if you need help with anything.”

“O-okay,” the woman stutters and leads her daughter through the cramped aisles with a tight grip.

“This isn't the ice cream shop, Mommy…”

Stiles waits until they're out of earshot, at least. “I can't believe you did that to prove a point.”

The angel smiles as he focuses wiping down the cash register. “Please. Like you haven't done anything in your power to prove a point.”

“You won't sell them anything, though,” he presses.

Derek's smile disappears at the thought of letting go the artifacts in his possession, these historical and magical items of Great Importance, to mere mortals.

“They can look around.” Derek offers, which is very generous of him. Stiles wasn't allowed to meet the angel _inside_ the shop for a very long time, mostly for very good reason.

The demon hums thoughtfully. “What if they... _touched_ something?”

Derek stops cleaning, alarmed at the subtle Suggestion Stiles let loose in the air, and watches the humans with wide eyes. It's nothing to a child who has the attention and curiosity of a puppy; The little girl plucks an angel harp and violently sneezes from the dust falling again. Derek makes an anxious noise.

Stiles cackles delightfully. “You did this. I'm not helping you. They might _loiter_.”

“Out!” Derek booms. The mother and daughter jump at his voice, staring at him, and he shakes his finger at the door. “Put down anything you have and get out! I'm closing shop early! There's a perfectly good gift store down the way, just get out of here!”

“No, miss,” Stiles says, slightly concerned by the Command in Derek's words taken so literally. “He doesn't mean leave your coat and purse. Take that with you. That's it, dears. Have a good day now!”

The door barely waits for them to cross the threshold before slamming shut. It causes a plume of dust to rise and the walls shake dirt from their hanging arrangements. The door locks by itself and the OPEN sign flips to CLOSED. After a few silent moments, waiting for the shop to settle down, Stiles looks at Derek from over his glasses.

Derek wrings the rag nervously between his hands, flushing in embarrassment.

“You're an awful salesman.”

The angel sighs and sets down the rag. “I know.”

“I mean,” Stiles fumbles a bit, “not _awful_ , but--”

“No, you're right.”

“Why not a museum? _Shop_ strongly implies you want things to be sold.” The demon wanders to a display case and opens it, pulling out Moses’ staff. He twirls it like a baton. “Do you want to sell anything here? At all?”

Derek opens and closes his mouth wordlessly before he splutters, “No! Can you imagine what some of these artifacts could do in the wrong hand? I've been trusted by Heaven to keep them safe from Greed and Corruption.”

“Exactly!” Stiles punctuates his exclamation by sharply connecting the staff and floor together.

Outside, 5o'clock bumper-to-bumper traffic smoothly parts like the Red Sea.

“But I can't open a museum,” Derek argues, ignoring the horns blaring. “ _That_ implies I want these things gawked at, or educate the wrong people that they exist, or have it advertised to fanatics I display the Last Supper’s real dishware, or-- or--”

“Or?”

The angel purses his lips as he stares down Stiles. “I'm certain we've discussed this before,” he says, tone calm once more.

Stiles scratches at his chin. “Have we?”

“Just five hundred years ago, I believe.”

“I don't think I recall the time,” he lies.

“Put up the staff, Stiles.”

Stiles jumps as if surprised. “The Staff of Moses is in my hand! How ever did that happen?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “You were bored the last time, too.”

“But you see, Derek, the last time I made it to London with Michael's sword before you caught on.”

“You boast as if you made it to London, England, you poor deceiver. What made you think I was going to fall for the same trick twice? That'd be very foolish of me.”

“Not as foolish as having a shop where no-one may purchase,” Stiles points out, leaning on the staff. “And your hospitality will get you nowhere in the reviews.”

“Considering my antique store doesn't exactly exist, I should hope not.” Derek snaps his fingers, and Moses’ staff disappears from Stiles's hold and reappears back in its case, locked up. The demon pouts.

“A museum brings unwanted attention; there are millions of storage sheds for me to lose these in; there's no room in my house; and, very rarely, some good soul crosses paths with an artifact and brings it here for cash. Likeness draws likeness, afterall.”

Stiles scrunches his nose. “When was the last time that happened?”

“Four days ago, actually.”

“What did the good soul bring?”

Derek bites his tongue. “Well.”

The demon’s eyes sparkle behind his glasses. “Oh! It's something delicious, isn't it! You need to show me, angel.”

“I need not do anything,” the angel snaps. “It was a bad idea to bring it up anyway.”

“Derek, what are friends for?”

“I'm not sure we're close enough to be friends,” he lies. “You come in here and put your prints on these priceless artifacts and try to lift them from right under my nose.”

Stiles waves his hands in dismissal, smiling wide and innocent. “All in good fun, my friend. You always realise before I get too far, and it's not like I ever plan to turn the artifacts in for my Masters.”

Derek assess the demon sharply, but Stiles seems to be genuinely startled at himself.

“Um,” he says, looking owlishly at the angel.

“What a very Right action,” Derek muses with a soft smile.

“Shut up. It's Wrong for me, and now it's making my skin crawl. They will be listening to this, mark my words. I'll be sent Below and take the trainee course all over again! I'm sorry! Hail Satan!”

“Quit your ramblings, Stiles. You know no angel or demon has listened in on this shop for two millennia. There's no reason for them to start now.” Derek comes around the counter and beckons the demon to follow him to the backroom.

“I suppose…” he says anxiously.

If the front was crowded from top to bottom and wall to wall with odds and ends, then the backroom was a hoarder’s dream come true. Boxes piled to the ceiling that never seemed to stop, overflowing in precious fabrics and jewels and mustard seeds and preserved breads and wines and water from the first baptism and a very memorable--

“Hey,” Stiles says slowly. “Is this my apple?”

Derek's ears go hot and he shuffles through a different box.

“I mean, I'm pretty sure it is.”

“Mmm.”

“With two bites from Adam and Eve.”

“It's somewhere in here…”

“But this isn't an artifact, Derek. It's not magical, or precious, or-- _anything_.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Derek mutters. His whole face is aflame with embarrassment, and he's happy to have his back to the demon. “It's history. It marks the first Sin.”

“...I suppose it does. Do you make a habit of going through trash bins for history?”

“If it comes down to it.”

Finally, at the bottom of the never-ending box, Derek pulls out his newest collection piece. He stands up and shows it to Stiles.

Stiles stops breathing. Well. He stops pretending to breath. He drops the apple that reminds Derek of more than the origin of sin, and stares at the skull in the angel’s hands. They don't move for a very long time.

Finally, the demon asks in a very small voice, “Is that like, legit?”

“I thought so at first, but your expression confirmed it.” Derek says, holding the giant jackal skull to eye level. _To be, or not to be_ , he thinks.

“How-- how fresh is it?”

“I gather about a decade.”

“Je-- G-- Chr-- _Babylon’s whore_!” Stiles shouts. “Put it down, you idiot!”

Derek frowns at him. “What's the matter?”

“Do you realise what it symbolises?” he screeches, his voice entering levels of inhuman. If Derek was human, his ears would be bleeding.

“The end of the world?”

“The End of the World!” Stiles pulls at his hair and it stands wilder than it did before. “How do you say it so _calmly_? Why wasn't I informed? Did you know they released the little beast onto Earth?”

The angel blinks. “Well, obviously. Where have you been for the last fifteen years? Everyone knows it's coming. There were prophecies and everything. I mean, hasn't your side been preparing for war?”

Stiles fidgets. Derek stares at him, astonished.

“You don't know. You didn't--”

“Of course I did! I get my reports! My Masters keep me inf--”

A cellphone rings. Derek continues to stare. Stiles looks half hysterical, but he fights to fish his phone from his pocket. Its one of those flat mobiles that Derek could never understand; he still has a home phone, tangled wire mess and everything.

“Hell,” Stiles whines. He looks pleadingly at Derek. “Not a word.” He brings the phone to his ear and says, “H-hey Dad…”

The angel drops the skull from shock alone. Dad? _Lucifer_? _God_? Who?

“Yeah, I'm fine. How-- how are you? You're home? Wow, what time is it? Oh. Y-yeah, I'm aware. I'm at a thrift store. I got sidetracked. I'll be home very soon. Love you too.”

Derek is floored. That was _not_ the Prince of Darkness.

“Um,” the demon says, not meeting Derek's intense gaze.

“What.”

“I can explain.”

“Can you.”

“Maybe?”

“Stiles.”

“Derek.”

The angel groans and puts his face in his hands. “What did you do, Stiles? Why are you hiding from Hell?”

Stiles shifts, guilty. “I-- you see, um.”

“You know they will find you,” he warns him. “And bless the souls you're hiding with because they will be in danger.”

“The End of the World is coming,” the demon counters weakly. “Everyone's in danger, Derek.”

Derek looks at the giant jackal skull. Ten or so years ago, it finally broke free from Hell and went sniffing for the perfect candidate to create the Antichrist. Both sides have been gathering their forces; prophets declared when the Antichrist turns eighteen, he'd turn into the greatest monster the world has ever seen.

“There is that,” he agrees. “But you're hiding for a different reason.”

Stiles scuffs his shoe against the apple he dropped. It won't bruise, thankfully.

“I disobeyed,” Stiles mutters.

“Oh. That's not terribly bad for you, right? Demons disobey all the time.”

“There's disobeying what is Right, and then there's disobeying the ones in charge, you know? Not exactly the Evil One, but those that float under that command and give orders to the unfortunate underlings. Like you snubbing off Gabriel's order.”

Derek winces. “I wouldn't be so dumb to do such a thing. Why did you?”

“I was recruited.”

Derek's eyes widen. “Oh,” he says dumbly.

He can imagine how that went:

_**Stilanisull. We hereby promote you.** _

_Sweet! To what position? Trainer? Guardian of Souls? Guardian of the Hellmouths? Prince of Hell?_

**_No. Congratulations. You are now a soldier, and you must immediately deploy to the General. He will have a conquest waiting for you._ **

_Yeah, um sure. Um. Thanks. I'll get right on that._

“So, instead of fighting angels you, what, found a _home_?” Derek takes another look at the new form Stiles is wearing and reels back. “Are you possessing a _human_?”

“You're disgusting. It was vacant, thank you!” he says, offended, and crosses his arms.

“You don't deny playing house, with a human father, even.” The angel muses out loud, “How does that even work?”

“It works _fine_ ,” Stiles bristles. “They're all going to die soon, anyway, so who cares? Maybe our people might get thrown into the mix instantly if they're going for weapons, like you said.”

Derek is silent for a long moment.

Deidraec has always been a dutiful angel. He does what the Lord expects of him, never steps out of line, protected human begins from Doubt and Faithlessness, and even was granted guardianship for some time until he landed the job of collecting artifacts of Great Importance. Which he rather loves, don't get him wrong; there was only so much saving of the human race Deidraec could do before it wears him thin.

He is not Stiles. He can't imagine living with humans on a personal level. He would be tempted to remove all obstacles and abolish sin from reaching those around him, and that is not any angel’s job. They haven't the right to influence Good on God's children if they're meant to be Evil, if there's a Greater Purpose. It's usually a fifty-fifty.

But Stiles is a demon. He could do as he pleased if it brought chaos and disorder in the world. Walk right up to a person and whisper ideas in their minds. Wrong ideas instead of Right, and took great amusement by watching their struggles, but then again… Derek used to tease Stiles about it, because the demon would grumble and change the human's fate last second. He would do Good instead of something terribly Bad.

Stiles is a bad demon. Bad in the sense that he was terrible at doing it, just as he was a terrible angel. Derek believes he only chose to fall to experience freedoms angels weren't allowed, which didn't necessarily make Stiles _Bad_ , just...not Good.

The knowledge of the demon spending time with humans in a familiar way makes the angel wonder if Stiles was learning something more about them, something not known to other ethereal and occult beings; the defensiveness Derek witnessed is completely out of the blue, when only twenty years ago Stiles was on the same standpoint about humanity as the angel: Interesting, full of faults, potentially vile or saint-like, addicts, geniuses, and inventors of delicious food.

Twenty years ago Stiles wouldn't have been able to pretend to be human.

Then he shakes his head. “You're right.”

Stiles narrows his eyes suspiciously. “I'm right?”

Stiles is certainly _not_ right, but the angel isn't going to tell him that he plans on spying.

“Who cares,” Derek agrees. “It's the end of the world. Armageddon. The Rapture. Your selfish decision doesn't seem to harm anyone, does it?” At the demon’s negative, Derek says, “Then go forth and do what you must.”

Stiles smiles blindingly at him. “Let's go out to eat, for old time sake.”

“Don't you have to get home?”

“I know a fantastic burger joint along the way. You'll like it,” he promises. “Besides, this may be the last time before the world ends.”

Well… Put it like that...

“Well… alright.”


	3. Chapter 3

Somewhere in California, a little boy played outside by himself. He actually didn't feel like playing, despite that being what his mom told him to do, so he sat on the curb and rolled a basketball between his outstretched legs. His best friend wasn't home from the hospital yet.

Suddenly, he heard the bushes between the houses rustle. He looked behind his shoulder curiously and stood up on his feet to go inspect the noise. He wondered if Mrs. Martin's cat got out again.

It took a moment to realise he was staring into a pair of red eyes, and with a startled gasp, he flung himself backward but tripped over his feet, falling on his backside. He started wheezing, searching for the red eyes.

They weren't there.

He sat for a long time, doing his breathing exercises, wondering if he imagined it all. Finally, after the fight or flight sensation left, he sprawled on his back to stare at the clouds.

There was a giant black dog looming over him. For its size, it was surprisingly slim and narrow.

He’s too scared to move. It sniffed at his hair, then his neck. Snuffled at his plain blue shirt. Its tail wagged.

Slowly, he brought his hand up and scratched it behind its ear.

“You scared me,” he said, feeling relieved all over again.

The dog woofed softly, a strange hollow sound, before it whipped its head and bites his arm. Its razor sharp teeth slice straight to the bone and grind it between its massive jaws, and he screamed and screamed until his parents came rushing out the house.

They scared off the dog. His dad called the cops while his mom carefully got him inside to clean the wound before taking him to the hospital.

This all happens very quick to Scott McCall, and he doesn't remember much these days of you ask him. He'll show you a really clean and cool scar, but he'll just shrug and say, “some dog” if you ask what did it.

Even now he doesn't realise the importance. Scott doesn't know he's been infected with the genes of Hell, chosen as The Conqueror of Worlds.

The Antichrist.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning/Triggers: An OC goes to the police about domestic and hinted sexual violence, authority abuse that can tip toward police brutality.

“Jesus Christ, Nancy! This could all be over with if you told us his name!”

“ _Pl-please_ be con-considerate, Off-Officer Butler…”

“God, I can't tell if you're here for help or attention.”

John Stilinski isn't a religious man, and he would even go as far to say he isn't particularly Christian. He didn't like the Popes in the Vatican he grew up learning, he never crossed a Priest whom he liked in church, and the Bible is considerably outdated in his opinion. All versions of it. John didn't only try Catholicism or Christianity (there was a memorable occasion of walking under the moonlight with Claudia in the Preserve) because he does believe in a higher power.

He also believes you don't have to be “Christ-like” to act like a decent human being. When he learns a deputy is willfully ignoring a victim's wish to not hear the Lord's name in vain, John barges into the questioning room and pulls the man right out of the chair.

“Jesus fucking--” Deputy Butler’s eyes land on John and widen comically.

“Finish that sentence, and I'll give you more than a write up,” he whispers between them. The deputy nods quickly and stumbles for the door when the sheriff lets him go. John sighs as it closes behind him, then turns to the victim.

“I deeply apologize for him, Nancy. There is no excuse for that sort of behavior in here, and I'll do my best to ensure it never happens again.”

Nancy Burch, a little thing of thirty, makes a quiet sound of acknowledgement. She doesn't make eye contact.

John runs a hand through his hair. “I'm going to get Deputy Tara Graeme,” he says gently. “Please, take your time, Nancy. We're here for your protection.”

When she only nods, John leaves the room and marches to Graeme’s desk. “I need you in there,” he orders.

Graeme looks at him with confusion in her dark eyes. “I thought Butler was on the case?”

“He's not anymore,” the sheriff says, and leaves it at that. “Nancy is on the verge of closing down completely, and I swear to-- I swear, if she goes back home to her abusive husband, I'm going to lose my cool.”

“Wait,” she says, “is this Nancy Burch?”

“Yeah?”

“I saw Butler and Mr. Burch out last weekend.”

“For the love of…” he mutters. John looks across the office where Deputy Butler is on the phone. “Please get in there. I’ll handle it out here.”

“Yes, sir. Then get home,” Graeme orders lightly. “You've been here since last night.” She stands and takes a folder with her.

He runs a hand through his hair again, and down his face. He's tired and wants to go home and see his son, but he still has work to do. Steeling his resolve, John stomps to Butler’s desk and puts a finger on the phone base, ending the call.

Butler gives an angry shout before it dies in his mouth when he sees John.

“My office. Now.”

“Y-yes, sir.”

John watches him scuffle paperwork around, opening drawers to put them away, and something snaps. “I said _NOW_ , deputy!”

“I- I'm just putting away sensitive infor--”

“If you don't stand up from your desk right now,” the sheriff threatens darkly, “I will suspend you. If you don't get to my office in five seconds, you will be terminated on the spot. Do I make myself clear?”

“Y-yes, sir!” Butler stammers with fear in his eyes, but still unmoving.

“ _FOUR! SUSPENDED!_ ”

That gets him. He scrambles to his feet and jogs to John’s office. John takes a deep breath and looks around to his other deputies watching the scene with different expressions of tribulation and relief. He catches Parrish’s eye, points at Butler's desk, and the young deputy nods.

Inside his office, Sheriff Stilinski closes the door behind him. Butler is standing, eyeing him warily.

“I am going to be _very calm_ right now,” he forces out in a way that meant he was far from calm. “The only way I will _stay calm_ is your reasonable explanation on what happened in the interrogation room. Sit.”

Butler sits in a chair slowly, and Sheriff Stilinski sits at his desk. He folds his hands together and keeps them on top of the desk.

“You may begin,” he allows.

“It- it was an investigation, yeah?” Butler stammers. “I was interrogating the suspect--”

“Stop,” Sheriff Stilinski says, and he does with an audible clack of teeth. “Mrs. Burch is not a suspect. She is a victim of domestic violence. She came in by her own free will and gathered courage to report her abuser. What you were doing wasn't interrogating; you were terrorizing her. You know her-- Hell, everyone knows Nancy, and you know how religious she is. What you did in there was unacceptable. Do you understand me?”

“Jack wouldn't hurt her,” Butler protests. “He--”

The sheriff slams his fist down, sees him flinch. “I did not ask you about Jack, I asked you if you understood how your actions were unacceptable as an officer of the law!”

Butler's jaw clenches. “Yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir, what?”

“Yes, sir, I understand.”

“What do you understand, deputy?”

“I was out of line and my actions were unacceptable.”

“Why were they unacceptable, deputy?” Sheriff Stilinski presses.

“Because-- because they infringed on her amendments.”

“And?”

“And I don't know what else you want me to say,” Butler replies through his teeth. Sheriff Stilinski narrows his eyes. He doesn't believe Jack may have been the only one abusing Nancy at home; how often did Butler and Mr. Burch go out?

“It seems as if you're simply forgetting how you were terrorizing a victim,” he says tersely.

“I understand my actions were unacceptable because I terrorised a victim and infringed on her amendments,” Butler offers.

Sheriff Stilinski pushes himself up and points his finger at him, shouting, “You are walking a _very thin line_ , Butler! You might want to reign in your _scathing sarcasm_ before it gets you fired!”

“I'm not being sarcastic, sir! I do understand what I have done!”

A couple things happen at once: the sheriff shouts, “ _Then why haven't you apologised for your behavior?!_ ”; Butler's eyes widen with the realisation of his mistake; Deputies Parrish and Graeme enter his office without knocking.

Parrish comes forward and slaps a folder on his desk. “He doesn't need to apologise, sir.”

“Nancy gave his name,” Graeme added. She holds up a tape recorder.

John flips open the folder and grimaces at the intimate and sickening photos. He fixes a deadly gaze on Butler, who sits there gaping. “Surrender your service weapon immediately. You're under arrest. You know your Goddamn rights.”

Two hours and thirteen minutes later, John staggers inside his house. The lights are off, and he looks back outside, so blurry-eyed he didn't notice if Stiles was home. The jeep isn't there. John pulls out his cellphone and calls him.

Stiles answers on the third ring, and John releases a breath of relief at the sound of his voice, “ _H-hey Dad_ …”

“Hey Stiles. Are you alright?” He slumps against the door and kicks off his shoes.

“ _Yeah, I'm fine. How-- how are you?_ ”

“Tired, son. So damn tired.” Keys and whatever else he pulls out of his pockets go into the bowl by the door; John will sort it out later.

“ _You're home? Wow. What time is it?_ ”

“Yeah, eighteen hour shift-wow.” He squints at the wall clock as he heads for the stairs, turns on a light. “It's something after six and I'm not going to be able to stay awake for dinner, I'm sorry.”

“ _Oh_.” John grimaces at the slight disappointment he hears.

“Don't forget to come home at a decent time,” he says. He pushes open his door and undoes his belt. He sets the gun inside the open wall safe and locks it in. “You have school in the morning; I won't allow you to skip just because it's Friday and you're tired.”

“ _Y-yeah, I'm aware._ ”

“Are you at Scott's?” John drops his pants and sheds his shirt. He'll get the badge and nameplate off in the morning.

“ _I'm at a thrift store. I got sidetracked. I'll be home very soon_.”

“Alright, Stiles. I trust you.” He pauses as he turns down his bed and sits down. “I love you,” a single father says to his only child.

“ _Love you too._ ”

They both wait about three seconds before ending the call, waiting to see if the other needs to say anything else. John sets his alarm clock, puts the phone on the bedside table, and crawls under the covers.

He dreams about Claudia.


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles doesn't have many classes with Scott since Junior Year started. They share English, Chemistry, and PE because Stiles ended up taking AP Trig, AP History, and Introduction to Latin with Lydia. He has seventh period free for Independent Study, but Stiles will be honest to say he just uses the free period to go home early.

So when lunch time comes around, Stiles hangs all over Scott. Scott has been Stiles's best friend since they met (Scott says they were three, but the body Stiles ended up inhabiting was six years old at time of death) and have been inseparable since. Stiles isn't too used to these times of separation since now they have the least amount of classes together than ever, Scott is dating Allison, and both of them are studying in separate after school study groups that matches each (well, Stiles downsizes a lot to keep appearances) of their intelligence levels.

Scott loves it, though. When Stiles hugs him and almost sits in his lap, the younger teen laughs and swings his arm around Stiles's shoulders.

“Hey, buddy!” Scott greets.

“Scoooooooott,” Stiles cries. “My Scott! I haven't seen you since ten-thirty!”

“Ahem,” says Allison from Scott's other side.

Stiles literally climbs over whatshisname to hug Allison and give her a sloppy kids on the cheek. “Allison, my Juliet! Where have you been all day?”

“Dude,” not-Allison whines.

Allison laughs delightfully. She fucking looks like a damn fairy princess when she laughs, her eyes twinkling and birds singing, and Stiles would have thought she's secretly an angel of he hadn't seen her aura.

With only Scott around for so long, it was difficult getting used to Allison's presence. Scott’s attention was diverted to the pretty new girl, and he would constantly invite her to lacrosse games and parties and Man Nights. Even though Allison annoyed Stiles to begin with because he, Stiles, wasn't the only star in Scott's world any longer, Stiles literally could find no fault with the girl. She is funny, sensitive to other people, witty, intelligent, played video games like a pro, and she doesn't mind getting dirty in nature. Allison, in Stiles's opinion, is the perfect girl for Scott, and he doesn't mind being the Sun to Allison's Moon.

Allison also comes to Stiles first and foremost when there's a problem with Scott. She asks for advice and takes criticism to her advantage. Stiles appreciates it how she always includes him in the conversation when they hangout together, so it doesn't feel like a date + 1.

“You also saw me at ten-thirty. I sat in front of you. I think I felt you playing with my hair.” She winks at him.

“You have very lovely hair,” Stiles agrees.

“Dude,” not-Allison says a little more petulantly. The demon pats him on the face when he sits back down.

“I still love you, not-Allison.”

“Why do I feel that's the name you gave me in your head?”

“Because it is,” he answers honestly and tears into his mac and cheese like a vacuum.

He ends up choking when Queen Lydia Martin slams her tray down across from Scott.

Stiles has mixed feelings about Lydia: she's scary beautiful and he has no idea where her IQ actually stands; her pale aura is never changing; she's the most popular student in all of Beacon Hills; wherever she goes, her boyfriend is sure to--

Jackson has a sour face as he sits next to Lydia, across from Allison. Stiles has always hated the asshole since Jackson pushed Scott off the swings in fourth grade and caused a asthma attack. He's your average jock bully, and the only redeeming features are his girlfriend and best friend--

Danny sits across from Stiles and at least acknowledges his existence with a civil smile. Danny is also on the lacrosse team, best keeper of the decade Coach says, and no one gives him shit about being an openly gay student or else they meet Jackson's fist. Danny is one of those personalities that could fit in with any group, but Stiles knows he's a hardcore nerd because of his police record.

“Allison,” Lydia greets warmly.

“Hey, Lydia,” Allison smiles. Stiles will never understand how a friendship like that ever happened. Despite being Allison's go-to for Scott, Lydia ranks higher than Stiles on the list.

“Scott,” Lydia says, more civilly than kind.

Scott quickly swallows his food to answer, “H-hi.”

“So your birthday is coming up,” she says conversationally, eyeing Scott.

(“Stiles,” Stiles says to himself in a higher pitched voice.

“Hello, Lydia, nice to see you,” he answers himself in his normal voice. “How have you been since you last ignored me? Good? That's nice.”

Danny snorts in his corn.)

Scott stares wide eyed at her. “Uh, yeah, if by coming up you mean it just happened?”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “No one cares about the seventeenth birthday--”

“You just had a seventeen birthday bash and half the student body was there,” Stiles points out. “I distinctly remember this because someone spiked the punch bowl with something not alcohol.”

Ever so slowly she turns and stares at him and Stiles thinks his demon life flashes before his eyes. He gulps audibly.

“Which I grievously apologised for, Stiles,” she says icily. “And everyone attends my parties, birthdays or not. It's everyone else's seventeenth birthday no one cares about.”

Jackson leans over the table toward him. “I think she's saying shut up, dork.” Allison shoves him roughly in the face, pushes him back in his seat.

“I didn't hear your name called, Jackson,” she says too sweet.

“Okay, yeah, so, this is interesting and all but my birthday just happened three months ago,” Scott tries. “We'll be Seniors before I even need to worry about it.”

“I know when your birthday is, Scott,” she says with an eye roll, pulling apart her roll. “And that's why I'm offering to set it up for you now: eighteen, Senior, co-captain of the lacrosse team, a party hosted by yours truly… it'll be the party of the year.”

Scott blinks and gets a dazed look in his eye, and Stiles knows he's a goner on the vision. Allison seems appreciative of Lydia's hand in doing something nice for her boyfriend, and Stiles is happy, too; Scott doesn't get the attention he deserves, even being co-captain of the lacrosse team, constantly in Jackson's shadow.

(Stiles is possibly the most unpopular student in the whole school. The body he's taken over has grown to be lanky, the tipping side of either stupidly attractive or horribly repulsive, and ADHD riddles his brain. His mouth, he's been told, opens too often and has a habit of painting vivid, disturbing pictures in words. Despite being smart and being friends with a sort-of popular crowd, Stiles doesn't make friends on purpose. He's guarded, selfish, and doesn't like to play well with others.)

Jackson, however, stabs angrily at his noodles.

“What's that Jackson?” Stiles says with a grin. “Didn't you get your sweet eighteen birthday bash?”

“Shut your mouth, Stilinski,” he retorts darkly.

“Jackson doesn't want people to know he was held back a year,” Lydia says, unconcerned.

“Wow, thank you Lydia, for sharing that,” he says.

“Wow, you're almost nineteen. So what? It's not that much of a secret, dude,” Danny tries for peace. “We all remember third grade.”

“I wasn't here,” Allison says, looking interested.

“Miss Fucking Miller failed me for not being able to write in cursive,” Jackson curses. “All of her English assignments were to be done in cursive. It was like, half of her grade.”

“Oh man, I almost forgot about that,” Scott says with a laugh. “She hated my cursive. Once I didn't even separate the words; just one, long squiggly line.” He waves his spork in the air for emphasis. Lydia raises a single eyebrow, a slight smile to her lips. “She looked like she wanted to cry.”

“Wow, interesting story, McDork,” he grumbles.

“You still can't write in cursive, Jackson,” Danny points out.

“Don't be too hard on him, Danny Boy,” the demon teases. “He's just sad he never got his party.”

When Jackson opens his mouth, Lydia quickly says, “So it's settled then, Scott? October 10th?”

“What's happening October 10th?” asks Erica, followed closely by Boyd and Isaac. She sits right next to Stiles with a charming smile, Boyd quietly beside her, and Isaac lands next to Jackson. Jackson gives him a disturbed face, but the curly haired teen only grins back, all teeth.

Here's the thing: Erica is a demon. She knows Stiles is a demon and vice versa. She's only a minion, sent on Earth to terrorize and Corrupt mankind, and she has all the fun in doing it. Stiles outranks Erica officially since his promotion, but he doesn't know if she reports to her Masters all that goes on. _Oh, yes Sirs, I saw Stilanisull making merry with the human folk, nowhere near the battlefield._

All in all Stiles doesn't trust her, or Boyd.

Boyd is an angel. Stiles doesn't remember him at all, so that means he's younger than Stiles. Whatever Wrong Erica goes about creating, Boyd evens out with Right. He follows her everywhere as if she's his sole purpose of being. He looks down upon any demonkind that isn't Erica, though Boyd seems to barely tolerate her antics. Stiles doesn't know Boyd’s position and mission from Above, but he's always on edge when he crosses angels not Derek.

Then there's Isaac. Stiles frowns slightly as he focuses his gaze on the teen’s aura. It's a steady black, unchanging, like Isaac is constantly holding in negative feelings, which contradicts his friendly demeanor toward Scott, Allison, and Stiles. He always stays in line, another lacrosse star, but is always seen tailing the angel and demon pair around. After school, the trio play the Bad Kids on the Block role.

“Should be Scott's birthday,” Isaac says as a question at Scott. Scott nods.

“Eighteenth, right?” Scott nods again. “What are you planning?”

Lydia clears her throat deliberately. “The plans are being left to me.”

Isaac rolls his eyes. “Of course they are.”

“Do you wish to add anything?” she asks testily. Stiles wouldn't even open his mouth at that point.

“Oh, yes, me!” Erica dares to declare. Lydia’s eyes flick to her. “There needs to be booze. And a DJ. And blacklights.” Her suggestions ooze with Demand and Priority. Scott, Allison, and Isaac exchange agreeable glances and even Jackson looks interested.

Danny raises his hand. “I can DJ.”

“It's a birthday, not a rave,” Lydia sniffs.

“I'm inclined to agree with Lydia,” Boyd quietly inputs. His words are filled with Sense and a different sort of Priority. “Scott is best friends with Stiles, and Stiles is the sheriff's son. It will most likely be something the sheriff would attend, and I don't think he'll overlook underage drinking.” Erica pouts.

Scott grimaces and side glances Stiles, who immediately starts shaking his head. “Dude, don't even think it. My dad has been your dad for years, you cannot not invite him, or thou shall face thee Wrath of thou Mother.” When the puppy look becomes a bit more guilty, the demon adds, “‘Sides, we don't even know his schedule.”

“So if he can't come, booze?” Scott asks hopefully.

“And then there's your mom,” Allison says. “She would definitely take time off to be with you.”

“There won't be any booze,” Lydia decides overall. “It's your eighteenth birthday. It only happens once. You should want to remember it. Twenty-first, however… I hear that is the year to skip. Just trust me; I'll make this the party of a lifetime.”

Scott bobbles his head quickly. “Yeah, totally. I can't wait, now!”

“I'll make sure to be there,” Isaac says.

“Everyone is going to be there,” she says firmly. “Just wait.”

Then, as if waiting for Lydia to finish, the bell rings. Erica, Boyd, and Isaac head one way; Jackson and Danny to another; Allison kisses Scott on the cheek, leaving for the field to practice archery; Scott holds Stiles back from following Lydia to their next class.

“What's up, dude?” the demon asks, noticing his friend's smile disappearing and being replaced with concern.

“Are we okay?” Scott asks carefully. “You didn't wait for me after practice yesterday.”

Stiles shakes his head, “We're good, man. There was something I had to do after school, then Dad was let off from the station.”

“Oh, okay,” he says quietly, and the demon looks at him sharply. “Just… we're almost Seniors. Then what?”

“Scott,” Stiles says, putting a hand on his shoulder, “We have all summer together to worry about things like the, the future.”

The thought of it almost makes Stiles sick. How old is the Antichrist now? How much longer is the future?

Scott slowly nods. “Yeah, I guess you're right. See you later?”

“You can't get rid of me, buddy,” Stiles laughs. “I'm with you until the end.”


	6. Chapter 6

She dreamt of her son.

Her son smiling and laughing.

Her son bleeding and crying.

Claudia had to hide the memorial she made for Mieczysław from John because he wouldn't understand. John would think she was progressing in her dementia; he never understood, anyway.

On the day of, Claudia shed a few tears; she had already mourned a few years ago, but this was her son. She bundled Mieczysław in his coat slowly and told him many times she loved him very much.

With bright eyes, Mieczysław smiled at her every time and repeated, “I love you too, Momma!”

Claudia memorized his smile and sound of his voice, and sent him off to school for the last time.

She had learned early on she couldn't change the future; it was when Claudia warned her brother against taking his car to work, to check the brakes because she _said so, don't ask me why_ , and he lived that day. Her brother lives for two months longer before Death took him for certain.

Claudia can't save them, not really.

She waited by the telephone the rest of the morning when, suddenly, the door opened with a bang and John, in his full officer uniform, shouted, “Claudia! Claudia, we need to go, Mieczysław-- he's been--”

The telephone began to ring.

When the surgeon and Melissa came from the OR doors, Claudia was very confused by their tired, satisfied smiles. She was ecstatic by the news, grateful her son is still alive, but Claudia knew without a doubt that Mieczysław should have died that day.

After a while, Claudia began to understand; no-one knows their child like a mother.

“The doctor wants you to answer some questions, Mieczysław,” she said slowly. Her son nodded, eyes wide at the doctor. It wasn't from fear or confusion as she had thought would happen (he had a fear of hospitals since his first flu shot). Mieczysław stared at the doctor with interest and curiosity. “He wants to check you brain to make sure nothing fell out, okay?”

“Sure,” Mieczysław agreed easily.

The doctor smiled encouragingly. “How are you today, brave boy?”

“I'm a little sore, but okay,” he answered.

“To be expected,” the doctor said with a nod. “Okay, can you tell me your name?”

“My-che…” He looked at Claudia. “I can't say it, but you can call me Stiles.”

Claudia swallowed. “We'll work on it, honey.”

“Don't bother. Just call me Stiles,” her son insisted. “I like that name.”

It was the first time Claudia heard the name from him. She shared a glance with the doctor to continue.

“Do you know where you are, Stiles?” the doctor asked.

“Somewhere in Northern California, in a hospital.”

Most kids Mieczysław’s age would only say _California_. What six year old has a hand on basic geography?

Claudia tried to not think about it for the longest time. Memory was fine aside from names and locations and other personal details, but Stiles had down facts.

He was grasping at social straws, however. When Stiles returned to school he was quiet and withdrawn, getting into fights, and showed remarkable and mature intelligence far above fourth grade level.

“It's as if the accident knocked a genius into him,” his teacher had laughed. Claudia had looked down at her son, and Stiles looked back up at her, owlishly, curious, studying her face and reaction.

Claudia could assume she knew at that point, but didn't want to believe it.

She waited to dream of her son dying, but months passed.

Years.

Her dementia was getting worse. She blacked out often, her head ached with sickness, and the expression on her husband's face was more distressed each time she came back to herself. Claudia knew she wouldn't have long left.

Death never came for her son.

Stiles was nine years old when she finally confronted the boy, when John left for work.

“Why did you do it?” Claudia asked him.

Stiles stopped playing chess with his dinosaurs and looked up at her with his wide eyes. “Do what?”

“Take my son from me,” she responded, calm and collected.

He stiffened so hard, Claudia almost believed she killed him with shock, and finally something more entered his expression. He looked upset and guilty. “I- I didn't, Mom I didn't do it, I didn't Mom, I swear on anything, I didn't take him, I didn't mean to do this, I didn't want it to be like this. M-Mommy…”

Claudia scoops him in her arms even though he's too big to carry. “Hush. I know he died. He died years ago, I know that for certain now. I didn't understand why his body was still alive when I knew to the second when he was going to move on.”

Stiles pushed against her shoulders to meet her face. “You're a prophet!”

She nodded. She knew many dangerous events to unfold but never revealed them. She didn't want to be locked away in Echo House, or a government building, or in a church tower.

“Did you hurt my son?” Claudia asked.

Stiles flinched violently. “It… it was an accident, I'm sorry. I did something, and your son paid the price, I am so sorry…”

Stiffly, she nodded. “I hope you learned from it,” she said, feeling leftover anger for her loss.

“I regret it from the bottom of my being,” he replied sincerely.

Claudia bounced Stiles in her arms, frowning, thinking. “I won't promise not to tell John because I'm getting worse; I will say a lot of things, but he shouldn't believe me. He knows not to take what I say to heart when I don't remember reality.”

Stiles shook his head. “You already said I was trying to kill you, the last time. You said _he's not my son, he'll kill me, too_. How long have you tried to deceive yourself?”

“Since the doctor came out and told us you survived surgery,” she replied honestly. She set him down and knelt in front of him, holding his shoulders firmly. “I do not regret having you here. Thank you for letting me have Mieczysław’s smile for this long.”

Stiles's eyes filled with tears. “B-but--”

Claudia hushed him. “You are an angel, sweetie. It would literally kill John to lose us both. The only thing I ask of you is to take care of him when I'm gone.”

“I-I promise.”

They never spoke of it again. Claudia continued to raise Stiles as her son with love, encouragement, and support until her visions and dementia took over. She muttered about wars, raged at Stiles and blamed him for Mieczysław's death, shouted at Scott for letting the evil claim him, before John couldn't take care of her anymore and feared for Stiles's safety.

Claudia turned away from the doctor and nurses hurrying Stiles from her room to start CPR, and came face-to-face with DEATH.

“Hello,” she said, unafraid. DEATH smiled at her.

**SHALL WE?**

Claudia took DEATH'S hand.

**ON OUR WAY, I WILL TELL YOU A STORY OF AN ANGEL NAMED STILANISULL.**

“Stiles, right?”

DEATH nodded her head once.

**STILANISULL WAS THE FIRST GUARDIAN ANGEL OF HEAVEN, LONG BEFORE HUMANS TOUCHED THE EARTH. FOR ETERNITY, HE WATCHED OVER THE BOWL OF SOULS...**


	7. Chapter 7

Before the Beginning, and before anger took root, and before there was evil, Stiles was the first self-proclaimed guardian angel. He made camp at the bowl of souls -- a grand, never-ending white tower -- to keep them company, he said, and safe until Creation started. Not that there was anything to put them in danger but he was reaching for excuses. Archangel Michael tried to chase him off every chance he had, but gave up after a few hundred uncharted years.

“Don't mind Michael.” Lucifer had appeared from the entrance of the tower, humor twinkling in his eyes. He visited the bowl of souls periodically; Stiles was always pleased to see Lucifer and be in his presence. He looked upon Lucifer as all the other angels did: awe and respect, a sort of idolism. “He's been short with any angel that doesn't sing the same song.”

“I don't understand,” Stiles had admitted, slightly ashamed he wasn't as wise as the beautiful angel.

Lucifer had laid a hand on his shoulder and smiled kindly. “It means he hates any sort of fun. A smile would probably hurt him.”

Stiles quirked a grin. “Yeah, I can see that happening.”

“I think you would be wonderful here, Stiles, at the bowl of souls,” he had encouraged.

“You think so?” Stiles asked hopefully. He glanced behind Lucifer when he felt Derek's presence suddenly appear. Derek had seemed momentarily surprised to see the highest angel before his expression wiped clean.

“I know so.” Lucifer’s hand slipped slowly from Stiles's shoulder as he went around him. Stiles caught Lucifer smiling in a way that reminded him of God.

“You will learn great wonders,” he had promised.

Stiles had watched him go, feeling excited and determined to become the most qualified angel to stand at the bowl of souls.

Derek had come close. “What did he want?”

“Words of wisdom,” Stiles dismissed, grinning, and looked up at the tower. “I really love it here, Derek. There's nowhere else I'd ever want to be. I'm eternally grateful I'm able to cherish every one of these souls with the same love I give God.”

“I don't understand gratitude, Stiles,” Derek had said.

The angel glanced at him. “Um. It's like being overly happy and thankful at the same time. Here, I'm also grateful we're friends.”

Derek had not said anything for a long moment, seeming to organize information. Angels weren't required to feel an array of emotions further than mercy and love. Stiles didn't understand why some angels did and didn't, but had never thought to question God.

“I believe I also feel the same, then,” he finally said, offering a small tilt of the lips. Stiles had smiled back widely.

“What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be training new angels?”

“I skipped out to distract Archangel Michael,” he replied, “but apparently he's given up battling against your determination.”

“Then you wouldn't mind joining me in the bowl of souls,” Stiles had suggested.

“For a while.”

Stiles took one step at a time and read the card beneath each soul sitting in an alcove. The souls all looked the same: translucent energy softly glowing, and both warm and cool to the touch. The cards told him the day a soul was to be born, the name they were given, and when and how they died.

_Day the Sixth_   
_Adam_   
_930th Year, Day the Thirtieth_   
_Natural Causes_

_Day the Sixth_   
_Eve_   
_930th Year, Day the Thirty-Second_   
_Heartache_

And on and on it went for eternity, up the spiral staircase. Stiles walked up and down the tower for centuries, memorizing a new name and birthdate. This was his job. This was where he was at peace at. These souls were His plan, after all, carefully created for a future only the Father knew; Stiles felt privileged to even be there. He couldn't wait to service them when Creation happened.

That's what he always thought. Stiles was _so sure_ of everything, back then.

When Lucifer rebelled against God, it caused an uproar.

Their Creator was angry, and the angels had never experienced such anger. They feared Him, they feared Lucifer, and it started a civil war. Angels chose sides of who they feared the least, and existence then held two dimensions: Heaven and Hell.

As Lucifer was being cast out from Heaven with his followers, he laughed. He looked around his spectators and his eyes landed on Stiles.

“Haven't you learned yet?” he asked, manic. “Do you see the wonders, Stilanisull?”

Stiles stared, frozen stiff. Derek put a hand on his shoulder.

“What does he mean, Stiles?” Derek asked.

Stiles had a creeping suspicion he didn't care voice. He felt fear in a different way, and the angel tore away from Derek to go to the bowl of souls.

He climbed, and climbed, and climbed, reading each card. Stiles ignored the calls from his fellow angels and kept on further than he had ever been; Stiles couldn't count the number of souls he read.

“I crossed paths with Solas,” Derek said in lieu of greeting, appearing out of nowhere many years after the split. Stiles barely glanced at him. “Do you remember him?”

“Why wouldn't I?” Stiles replied, distracted. Derek followed him up the staircase.

“He didn't appear to have any recollection of me,” he said. “In fact Solas tried to attack me.”

That made Stiles pause; he turned to his friend and immediately noticed the slash marks across the other angel’s face.

“Derek!” he shouted, aghast. He put a hand carefully on Derek's cheek and had his Grace mend him.

“I'm fine, but I'm...troubled,” Derek admitted with a sigh. “Solas was a friend of mine. He didn't have a figment of hatred in him, but for him to act in such a violent manner is confusing.”

Stiles shook his head. “You need to stay away from the Fallen, Derek. They are no longer angels. I don't know what I would do if you never came back.”

Derek looked at him sharply. “There's no danger of that. I will always be here.”

Stiles felt his lips smile. Wasn't that something? To express emotion he didn't exactly feel; he was relieved Derek had enough faith to continue to exist in Heaven, but doubt lingered through him. He was anxious, but he smiled, and Stiles didn't understand why.

“So will I,” he promised.

Derek reached out to him. “Come to the choir with me. I miss hearing your voice among us.”

Stiles looked at the cards ahead of him, the uncountable left to read and understand why Lucifer taunted him so long ago about them.

He shook his head, and Derek's face fell.

“Later,” he lied. Derek didn't seem to believe him, either.


	8. Chapter 8

It's not hard to track Stiles to a small city called Beacon Hills, an hour or so drive from Derek's antique shop by following the natural pull toward other non-human entities, but it's the journey there that leaves Derek wondering if he really cares Stiles surrounds himself with humans now.

There's horn blares from ahead of him, the car in front braking suddenly. Derek slams on his own brakes. A girl crosses the highway, and the angel stares, incredulous; it's busy afternoon traffic on the direct highway toward San Francisco, and the girl crosses _the highway_ , miles away from any service station, like she's crossing a street where drivers took her right away from her.

The girl tosses her head back to shout at the motorist in front of Derek, making a rude gesture with her hand. A car in the next lane honks, not slowing down, and Derek quickly acts.

“Barely misses her, a scare, but nothing happens,” he rushes to say, and the vehicle does exactly as he commands it to. The rest of traffic have slowed down, honking their displeasure at the holdup. When he can, Derek pulls into the next lane and off onto the shoulder of the road.

The girl is still having a one-man argument with traffic when he gets out. Maybe she's touched, Derek thinks idly. Maybe they've crossed paths for a reason.

“Miss, hey,” Derek says slowly to the girl. Her aura is like uncontrollable rage, and she looks the part with the scowl deepening on her face. He hesitates from surprise.

“Can I help you?” the girl demands with barely contained impatience.

“You realise you walked straight into traffic, right? Do you know where you are, miss?”

“Uh, duh. On the road to Beacon Hills. I'm going to the home.”

“You walked _into traffic_ ,” the angel says again with urgency. This time the girl blinks and looks around them as if just realising her surroundings for the first time. Her eyes widen and mouth opens.

“I guess I wasn't paying attention…” she whispers. “This place confuses me. I'm used to horses.”

“Can I drive you somewhere, miss?”

“Malia,” the girl offers. “I'm just going to the home. I'll be there shortly.”

If shortly meant tomorrow morning, maybe. “We're still a ways off from Beacon Hills, almost an hour,” Derek says dubiously, smudging his words with Reason. “It'll be more than twelve if you walked that. It's getting rather late, don't you think?”

Malia stubbornly shook her head. “I don't know what you're trying, angel, but I don't like it. I'll get there _shortly_.”

In the milliseconds it took Derek to be surprised at being discovered to Malia finishing her statement, they and the car are transported to the start of town, Welcome to Beacon Hills greeting them on the sign. Derek stumbles where he stands and a motorist swerves on the road at their sudden appearance. The driver won't remember, Derek commands silently, and so they won't.

He regards her with a new cautious approach. “You're not an angel or demon,” he says.

“I am War,” Malia corrects.

Derek lets out a slow release of air. “War. Right. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Horseman.”

“Malia,” the Horseman (Horsewoman?? Derek thinks crazily) corrects again. “I'm not on duty yet.”

“Yet,” Derek echoes weakly. “Right. So. You're headed to the home, you say? It should be thirty minutes---” In a blink of an eye she's no longer there.

“Or instantly. Sure.” He looks around himself, feeling dazed, and slowly walks to his vehicle. “Stiles won't believe me. I should have asked for an autograph. How often do we cross paths with the Horsemen?”

Derek sits in the Toyota, which is still running, and fastens his seatbelt and checks his mirrors. He puts both hands on the wheel, knuckles white with a tight grip. The angel breaks out into a sweat.

He crossed War's path and can live to tell the tale.

 

*

 

Melissa McCall smiles at Malia as she walks down the hallway. “Hey there, Malia. Long time, no see. How’ve you been?”

The teen smiles at her the same way she did a few months ago. “Same as usual. How is he?” she asks, straight to the point.

“You can come with me while I give his medication, if you wish,” Melissa offers. “I was just headed that way.”

“I actually can't stay for long,” Malia says. “I'm going to enroll in school.”

“Oh?” Melissa asks, interested. “It's a little late in the school year. Your mother is moving into town?”

“I don't have a mom,” she replies bluntly.

“Your guardian?” Melissa tries. Malia doesn't answer and stares at her until she begins to feel uncomfortable. She clears her throat. “Peter's doing fine, same as always. Small improvements with eating and his speech is fantastic, but he's come a long way.”

Malia nods, and says as she turns and heads down the hall, “That's good. I'll stop by his room and say hi before I leave.”

“Um, alright…” the nurse says to no one, uncertain; she wishes she knew more about her patients’ families to give advice when advice seemed to be due. Melissa trails after her slowly and stops by Peter Hale’s door. She peers in quietly.

Peter's daughter crouches next to her father and holds his hand. Peter turns his head with some difficulty toward Malia with a smile.

“Beautiful girl,” he rasps. “I've missed you.”

“I hear you're doing better,” she says. “You sound better.”

“Where are your friends?” Peter asks, which seems peculiar to Melissa for him to question. “Except the sickly fellow. Don't care for him too much.”

“School and stuff.” Malia pauses a long moment, and even if Melissa can't see her face she can tell Peter's waiting for her to continue. “I wanted to thank you.”

The laugh Peter lets out is harsh and too airy; a flash of pain crosses his expression from using his voice so carelessly, but clears up almost immediately. He leans forward and runs his other hand through Malia’s hair.

“Rage personified wants to thank me?” he asks wryly. “To what honor do I owe your pleasure?”

“For allowing me to be your daughter.” This strikes Melissa as something odd to say, from daughter to father, but she stays quiet and doesn't intervene.

Peter's eyes soften. “Sweetheart, I would have given anything to see Malia grow up. You bunch don't understand mortals and our selfishness; parents will always want another day with their children.”

What? The nurse is confused. Carefully, she pulls out a sticky note pad and pen from her scrub pockets and makes a note to look into the family history.

“I don't wish to understand,” Malia responds, her tone brusque in a way Melissa disapproves of, but Peter doesn't seem phased in the least. His scarred face makes a fond and wry expression. “...but I wish I did want.”

The man laughs, something dry. “No, dear. You are better off not knowing the emotions of humans.”

Malia doesn't say anything for a while, but when she does speak again it's wistful: “Perhaps not.” Peter continues to run his hand through her hair for another minute before giving a loud sigh.

“My nurse is rather nosy,” he says, louder, intending for Melissa to hear. He makes eye contact with her and a shiver runs down her spine. “Whatever shall you do, Malia?”

The girl looks over her shoulder. “She's going to go get your medicine and forget this conversation ever happened.”

Melissa doesn't remember the trip to the med cart, pulling out prescription medication for Peter Hale, but she has the cup in her hand as she makes her way to her patient's room. She smiles back at him when he smiles at her.

“Ah, Melissa, my favorite, beautiful nurse,” he says, taking the cup from her and knocking back the pills. He takes them dry, making Melissa grimace inwardly. “My daughter came by to say hello.”

Something niggles in the back of her mind.

“I saw her in the hallway,” she agrees, pushing aside her strange feeling. “Was the visit nice? She said something about enrolling at Beacon High.”

Surprise flits across his face. “She didn't mention. I'll be looking forward to more frequent visits, then. Maybe. She's a busy girl.”

Melissa laughs. “I know what you mean; my boy seems busier than ever lately, picking up a part-time job at the animal clinic.”

“How is Scott lately?” Peter asks, genuine interest in his tone. “Forgive me if I question too much of your personal life.”

“No, not at all! I'm very proud of Scott, he's such a good kid. Any parent likes to brag about their kids, I'm sure you understand.” The patient smiles politely, but it doesn't reach his eyes. “Scott's doing well,” she says, hurrying. She does have other meds to pass; where did the time go? “He came home the other day excited about his upcoming birthday. Apparently a popular girl at school wants to throw him an eighteenth birthday bash.”

“Well that's nice of her,” he replies. “I'm sure he'll have a blast. Do you remember being eighteen? We felt on top of the world.”

Eighteen was when she became engaged to Rafa. She sighs. “We thought we were invincible. ...Alright, sir, I gotta get going. Push your button if you need anything, of course.”

“Of course,” Peter smiles. “I'll see you for the next dose.”

When Melissa gets home, she reads a sticky note Scott left on the fridge: _went to Stiles’ be back before curfew Allison made dinner its in fridge xoxo Scott_

She feels heartened by her son's girlfriend's thoughtfulness as she empties her scrub pockets in front of the kitchen trash. She lays the sticky notepad beside the fridge and notices its been written on; Melissa picks it back up, reads:

_Hale family & Hale fire_

_Malia Hale mother?_

That's her handwriting.

Why did she write that? When did she?

Melissa chews the inside of her cheek and pockets the single note again.


	9. Chapter 9

“Shit,” Kali hisses, and there's an unmistakable thud and bump on the road before Deucalion feels her pull over and come to a stop.

“I could make a joke about women drivers,” he says, “but you're likely to have a quip ready about blindness.”

“If only your mouth was as broken as your eyes,” she mutters without bite, leaving the vehicle. A smirk crosses Deucalion's face and he follows her out to check the damage; Kali is inspecting the mechanics, but he's more interested in the thready heartbeat on the pavement.

He flashes his red eyes to see the animal. It's a fox, he realises, approaching and crouching close. He can smell blood.

“What pitying circumstances…” He lays a hand on its twisted hindquarters and takes its pain. The fox’s eyes roll back and close, still alive though passed out. “Get the blanket, Kali.”

“Is the animal clinic open after five?” Kali asks him, reading his mind. She passes him the blanket which he spreads over the fox and starts carefully bundling it up. The fox whines despite being unconscious.

“One way to find out,” Deucalion responds. Another car breaks and turns, coming up behind them on the shoulder before stopping. With a frown, he lets go of his alpha power and the world disappears behind his disability again.

He relies on his other senses: A human steps out of the vehicle, a woman by the light step and feminine product scents, yet there's something else about it that makes his hair stand up at the end. She's dangerous. Her heartbeat is steady, leaving a confident air about her. Deucalion can hear the intake of breath, but he beats her to it with, “We're okay. Are you a local? Do you happen to know if the veterinarian is still open?”

“Why would I know?” she scoffs. Beside him, Kali growls low in her throat. “Settle down. I just need some information.”

Deucalion cocks his head to the side. “Why would I know?”

“Oh, haha,” she says. “Hold down the wit before I kill your bitch.”

A chill runs down his spine and sweat prickles on the back of his neck. It's hard for him not to react as Kali reels herself backwards in shock, but he manages it somehow.

“Excuse my manners,” he says after a moment. “How may we help you, stranger? But may I ask you keep it short; this animal is in critical condition.”

“See, that's how it's done,” she laughs, and Deucalion hears a paper rustling on her person. He can sense her get closer and Kali moving beside him. “I'm looking for a garrison of angels, so if you know any by those names or aliases, your help won't go without reward.”

Deucalion frowns. “I'm sorry, but did you say angels? Are you an escaped Echo House patient?”

“If werewolves can exist, why not angels and demons?” the woman asks, amusement lacing her words. “Let your eyes bleed, alpha. I know what you are.”

Deucalion reaches up with a single hand and removes his sunglasses, opening his eyes again to his wolf sight. “You knew this before you pulled over. What are you?” Kali leans over to let him read off the list, and he reads names he doesn't recognise from any mythology researching. He sets his red eyes on the smirking blonde woman in front of them, watching her own eyes turn completely black.

“I'm a soldier of Hell,” the demon says. “If you find those angels, please, give me a call. They're out to destroy all impure creatures, and who knows if you werewolves are on that list.”

Her name - _Kate Argent xoxo_ \- is in a messy cursive with a number at the bottom.

“Compared to these angels, you have quite the human name for a demon,” Deucalion comments dryly. “I knew an Argent, once.” He was almost certain Gerard Argent had children named Christopher and Katherine.

Kate laughs. “I stole Kate’s name when I stole Kate’s body. She was once a hunter, yes, but I don’t hunt werewolves. I don’t go by my true name on this realm because it isn't pronounceable on mortal tongue.”

“How did you know?” Kali pipes up. Kate sets her unnerving black gaze on her, silent. “You looked at us and knew, but how?”

Deucalion clears his throat and gestures to her with his hand. “My Second and wife.”

“Also an alpha; how does that work,” the demon muses, smirking. “I didn't see it. I felt it. I could feel your inhuman energies long before I dug my way through the earth to stand beside you simple creatures. Each and every demon and angel can pinpoint anything and anybody, and track them down.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Except for the opposite, apparently.”

Kate matches his expression. “There are about as many angels as there are demons, werewolf, with just as many complications and variables about why I can't find those glorified pigeons.”

“Why should we call you if we come across them, and not the other way around?”

“Other than the fact your _lives_ might be in _danger_ if you cross an angel? Because they're _poison_ , sweetheart. They go around and do as much damage as us demons, deciding who gets to live and who doesn't get to be manipulated toward safety. They're actually giving us a bad name.” The demon’s expression turns dramatically pouty in such an alarmingly quick change Deucalion has it figured she might be dangerous. Unhinged, he clarifies to himself, demonic origins aside. “Besides,” she waves a hand dismissively at them, “I’ll kill you the instant you whisper my name to an angel.”

Deucalion clears his throat. “What makes you believe we'll be any use to you? We wouldn't have known of you lot if you hadn't… _graced_ us with your presence.” His tone lilts in a sardonic note at the end.

“You're from the area, right?” At his nod, she continues, “Of course you are. Even if you weren't, you would have probably traveled far to be here. Do you notice anything appealing about Beacon Hills?”

He and Kali share a glance. “Not in particular,” he says warily, eying Kate and wondering about her judgment. Deucalion shifted carefully with the fox in his arms, wanting to be done with this conversation and far away from the demon. “I suppose you do?”

Kate sighs and shakes her head, her hand coming up to hold her forehead. “What subspecies you all are,” they hear her mumble. Kali’s hackles raise again, but he brushes his elbow against her. This isn't an entity to fight. “There's a Nemeton in the preserve. It’s presence is not unlike a beacon to unnatural and nocturnal monsters as yourselves, but serves more like a black hole. The gravity is different here. I say I can track you, but had I not made that fox cross in front of you, you would have entered the city limits. It would have been a lot harder to find you.” She is quiet for a long second.

“I was here almost ten years ago,” Kate says. Her gaze drifts to the thicket of trees on the side of the road. “The Nemeton was already activated, but it didn’t feel like this.” She visibly shudders and Deucalion feels a prickle at the back of his neck, the urge to hide almost primal. He wants to laugh it off with his nerves; he’s a powerful alpha, and he wants to hide? But what makes a demon fearful? Surely something _he_ should be afraid of, as well. “Supernatural creatures are flocking to Beacon Hills, angels and demons, and everything in between. While you two are in there, I won’t have to step in Beacon Hills until you make contact with angels. I would ask the other resident werewolf, but we didn’t hit off so great the last time we crossed paths.”

 _Peter Hale_ , Deucalion thinks, adding up the evidence.

“If we refuse?” Kali asks. The question barely leaves her lips before she’s on the ground with Kate suddenly behind her. Deucalion almost drops the fox, almost shouts his wife’s name. He smells her blood, sees it on the dagger conjured in Kate’s hand, and the Alpha of Alphas stares down the demon with unblinking red eyes. He has to keep calm, he reminds himself. Kali is already healing and rising to her feet. It will take more than that to keep Kali on her knees.

“You won’t, or I’ll kill you. Simple as that.” Kate responds, wiping the blood from her blade. She never looks away from Deucalion. “Truth is I need your werewolf senses, all of them. What you see, what you smell, everything. With the Nemeton’s pull like that, it wouldn’t surprise me if there were a whole garrison of angels in Beacon Hills.”

“What do angels smell like? How do we identify them?” his wife asks.

Kate smirks. “I like these questions better.”

“You’ll like them more down the list.”

“Oh, I bet I will.”

“Please tell us how we can find angels.” Deucalion cuts in crossly. “Need I remind you of your unfortunate pawn you nearly had us kill?” He gestures with the fox in his arms.

“Yes, yes, fine, fine,” Kate snaps, rolling her eyes. “You’ll be able to see their aura. It’s the shape of their Grace, while a demons’ aura—” (at this Deucalion focuses in on the demon’s aura, and feels weak in the knees at the sight of it; he gags to hold back the bile that rises) “—is the nature of their Sin. I wouldn’t look for too long, sweetheart, I’ve been told it’s rather grotesque.”

Kali spits. “What do they smell like?”

“See, that’s where this starts getting complicated. I don’t know what angels smell like, I don’t even know what I smell like—” (a hint of Sulfur and gasoline, but he isn’t incline to comment) “—and I don’t know if they sound any different to supernatural hearing, but I know your sight is better than mine, especially since I don’t want to be in Beacon Hills. Now, if you would be so kind, please call my number so I have yours.” Kate fishes out her phone, then blinks at them. “Oh, my. What are your names?”

His wife complies with the thinly veiled command, and she sighs loudly as she keys in the demon’s number. “Deucalion and Kali Emery.”

Kate stops and looks at them even while her ringtone plays out. “No, really.”

“ _Kate_.” He finally says, a desperate plea heard, and she laughs victoriously, like this whole visitation and torment was to hear him beg.

They finish up quickly from there. Kate sends them on their way with a wave and a cheery ‘ _ta-ta!_ ’, fox buckled in the back seat, entering the city border without the demon behind them. Deucalion is driving without his sunglasses on, shoulders squared and knuckles white. He’s breathing harshly, Kali sitting quietly beside him.

A good two miles in, on the right, is the clinic.

They are, indeed, open after five.

They’re actually open until eight.

“Take her in, Kali,” Deucalion whispers to her. “I’ll be right in.”

She hesitates with her hand on the door. After a moment, Kali leans into her husband and kisses him on the cheek. “It’s okay to be frightened, Duke. I am, too.” Deucalion lets go a long breath that made his chest feel lighter. She pats his hand and takes the fox inside.

*

During the weekends and some days after school, Scott works for Dr. Alan Deaton at the animal clinic. The man is a little eccentric, with all his philosophical metaphors and huge tomes about alternative medicine, but Deaton is nice in a way that he doesn't mind if Scott shows up a few minutes late, or brings Allison and or Stiles with him to work, or plays with the rescue animals more than he cleans behind his boss (Scott really tries to ignore them, but those eyes get him). That isn’t to say the veterinarian allows Scott to get away with his lackadaisic attitude each time; he reminds Scott in gentle and firm way with his paycheck. Not enough to scar, but something to be wistful about. Deaton is a fair employer and Scott has come to respect him and his practice very much.

His patient’s called Rhode, a gorgeous German Shepherd, and Scott’s helping Deaton administer shots for the very first time.

Except for the bell jingling at the entrance and a woman’s voice shouting, “Help, I’ve run over an animal!”

Which means emergency.

Dr. Deaton smiles at him patiently. “It’ll be another time, Scott. You go help our next customer, and I’ll take care of Rhode to free up the table.” Even as he talks, he’s already finishing up, his hands working so precise and expertly quick. Scott nods and pushes through the door toward the waiting room. A tall, dark-skinned, and barefoot woman’s standing with a blanketed and unconscious fox in the middle of the room. The door opens again, bell jingling, and in steps a shorter, older than the woman, white, blind man. Scott has to tamp down the urge to tell the man his driver is barefoot. They both approach the counter as one, but stay about a foot away. The woman still sets the animal gently on the counter, so Scott focuses back on the fox and doesn’t mention any of it.

“Hi, guys, sorry to see you here,” he says as he unwraps the animal. “How long ago was the accident? Has she sounded like she’s had any trouble breathing?” They answer his questions, and he feels — a quick glance — her ribs carefully with two trained fingers. Nothing feels broken. Good.

Deaton comes up beside him. “Oh dear, I know this fox.”

“Really? Who would own a fox?”**

After a long and silent moment where his boss doesn't answer him, the people speak. “Alan Deaton, is that you,” the man asks.

Deaton looks up at the man with a hard expression. “Yes? Have we… Deucalion?” he returns with surprise. “Kali?”

Deucalion gives him a grim smile. “It’s a relief to come upon familiar people.”

“We have a story for you,” Kali the Barefoot Driver says with a tired sigh. Scott decides his brain is now actively trying to fill Stiles’s missing presence. He hasn’t had quality time with his best friend in a long while.

Deaton glances at Scott. “Well, I will like to hear it. Scott, it's getting late, so you can go now. I'm going to have to reset the leg after sedating her. It will be a long process that will take most of the night, and you have school in the morning.”

The teenager stammers, “B-but Dr. Deaton, I want to help!”

“No buts, Scott,” he doesn't say unkindly. “Proper rest and your education should be top priority. If you don't head to sleep before nine, think of this as a good time to be studying. Don't you agree?” The adults are watching him with such expectation that Scott sighs heavily and nods. He'll probably ask to see the x-rays later. Deaton smiles at him, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you for your help today,” Deaton says sincerely. It makes Scott's spirits lift a little because at least his efforts of hard work were being noticed. “I'll be seeing you tomorrow per usual, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

Deaton smiles at him again. “Good. Take care.” Scott grabs his backpack from underneath the counter and maneuvers around the adults to reach the front door.

“Oh, and Scott?” The teen looks over his shoulder to his boss. “Are you friends with Kira Yukimura at school?”

Scott's eyebrows furrow, confused. “Uh, not really? We share a couple of classes but--”

“Excellent,” Deaton says. “When you see her next, please tell her to pick up a medication for her fox.”

“Oh. Yes, sir. Will do,” Scott says, giving one last look at the fox still unconscious on the counter. He hopes her leg will be fine. He would like to give Kira some good news about her pet.

He goes home and plays video games with Stiles for the rest of the night, while his mom is at work, because that's what teenagers do when they should be studying. Scott barely remembers to mention the blind man and the barefoot lady.

“That's super weird,” Stiles says in his ear, through the earpiece. He's munching on chips so it comes out garbled.

Scott pops a handful of Reese's Pieces in his mouth to match.  

“Yeah,” he responds. “Like, at least she could have worn flip flops or something?”

“Actually Scotty, did you know it's not against the law to drive without shoes?”

“What, really?”

“Yep,” Stiles says. “Complete myth. Used to scare drivers or hippies or something.”

Scott snorts in the microphone. “Yeah, I don't think she was a hippie.”

“She was on her way to hippie kingdom when she hit an unsuspecting animal,” his friend prophesies. “What cruel world.”

“Abducting disabled people.”

“Coming to buy drugs from your boss.”

Scott laughs with surprise. “Okay, this is getting out of hand now, buddy.” Stiles goes suddenly quiet on his end, and Scott notices Stiles’s in-game character standing still on the map. “You there, Stiles?”

“Yeah, uh. Uh, I think I need to go. I have a weird feeling that Dad might be circling the block until my lights are out.”

His phone beeps with a text message. Scott opens it to find a picture shot from Stiles's bedroom window of a police cruiser flashing its lights in the middle of the street. Scott laughs again.

“I wonder what gave you that idea,” he says, singsong.

“Yeah, yeah. Good night, Scotty,” Stiles farewells.

“You, too, bro.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [author’s note side scene:  
> [**]  
> War, Famine, Pestilence, and DEATH gathered around the sleeping fox.  
> “He doesn’t want a fox,” Pestilence said petulantly.  
> “Well, too bad,” War said haughtily. “I trained her to be a badass.”  
> I’M SORRY. I SAW THE HELLHOUND AND I WANTED HIM. WAIT, I DON’T THINK I’M ACTUALLY SORRY.  
> Famine side-eyed DEATH. “Yeah, okay. But is she cute tho”]


End file.
